7
THE SHOOT LASTED FOR ANOTHER three hours. Strike waited in the garden, smoking and consuming more bottled water, while dusk fell. From time to time he wandered back into the building to check on progress, which seemed immensely slow. Occasionally he glimpsed or heard Somé, whose temper seemed frayed, barking instructions at the photographer or one of the black-clad minions who flitted between clothes racks. Finally, at nearly nine o’clock, after Strike had consumed a few slices of the pizza that had been ordered by the morose and exhausted stylist’s assistant, Ciara Porter descended the stairs where she had been posing with her two colleagues, and joined Strike in the makeup room, which Bryony was busy stripping bare.
Ciara was still wearing the stiff silver minidress in which she had posed for the last pictures. Attenuated and angular, with milk-white skin, hair almost as fair, and pale blue eyes set very wide apart, she stretched out her endless legs, in platform shoes that were tied with long silver threads up her calves, and lit a Marlboro Light.
“God, I can’t believe you’re Rokers’ son!” she said breathlessly, her chrysoberyl eyes and full lips both wide. “Just beyond weird! I know him; he invited Looly and me to the Greatest Hits launch last year! And I know your brothers, Al and Eddie! They told me they had a big brother in the army! God. Mad. Is that you done, Bryony?” Ciara added pointedly.
The makeup artist seemed to be making a laborious business of gathering up the tools of her trade. Now she sped up perceptibly, while Ciara smoked and watched her in silence.
“Yep, that’s me,” said Bryony brightly at last, hoisting a heavy box over her shoulder and picking up more cases in each hand. “See you, Ciara. Goodbye,” she added to Strike, and left.
“She is so bloody nosy, and such a gossip,” Ciara told Strike. She threw back her long white hair, rearranged her coltish legs and asked:
“D’you see a lot of Al and Eddie?”
“No,” said Strike.
“And your mum,” she said, unfazed, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “I mean, she’s just, like, a legend. You know how Baz Carmichael did a whole collection two seasons back called ‘Supergroupie,’ and it was like, Bebe Buell and your mum were the whole inspiration? Maxi skirts and buttonless shirts and boots?”
“I didn’t,” said Strike.
“Oh, it was, like—you know that great quote about Ossie Clark dresses, how men liked them because they could just, like, open them up really easily and fuck the girls? That’s, like, your mum’s whole era.”
She shook her hair out of her eyes again and gazed at him, not with the chilling and offensive appraisal of Tansy Bestigui, but in what seemed to be frank and open wonder. It was difficult for him to decide whether she was sincere, or performing her own character; her beauty got in the way, like a thick cobweb through which it was difficult to see her clearly.
“So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about Lula.”
“God, yeah. Yeah. No, I really want to help. When I heard someone was investigating it, I was, like, well, good. At last.”
“Really?”
“God, yeah. The whole thing was so fucking shocking. I just couldn’t believe it. She’s still on my phone, look at this.”
She rummaged in an enormous handbag, finally retrieving a white iPhone. Scrolling down the contact list, she leaned into him, showing him the name “Looly.” Her perfume was sweet and peppery.
“I keep expecting her to call me,” said Ciara, momentarily subdued, slipping the phone back into her bag. “I can’t delete her; I keep going to do it, and then just, like, bottling it, you know?”
She raised herself restlessly, twisted one of the long legs underneath her, sat back down and smoked in silence for a few seconds.
“You were with her most of her last day, weren’t you?” Strike asked.
“Don’t fucking remind me,” said Ciara, closing her eyes. “I’ve only been over it, like, a million times. Trying to get my head around how you can go from, like, completely bloody happy to dead in, like, hours.”
“She was completely happy?”
“God, happier than I’d ever seen her, that last week. We got back from a job in Antigua for Vogue, and she and Evan got back together and they had the commitment ceremony; it was all fantastic for her, she was on cloud nine.”
“You were at this commitment ceremony?”
“Oh yeah,” said Ciara, dropping her cigarette end into a can of Coke, where it was extinguished with a small hiss. “God, it was beyond romantic. Evan just, like, sprang it on her at Dickie Carbury’s house. You know Dickie Carbury, the restaurateur? He’s got this fabulous place in the Cotswolds, and we were all there for the weekend, and Evan had bought them both matching bangles from Fergus Keane, gorgeous, oxidized silver. He forced us all down to the lake after dinner in the freezing cold and the snow, and then he recited this poem he’d written to her, and put the bangle on her wrist. Looly was laughing her head off, but then she just, like, recited a poem she knew back to him. Walt Whitman. It was,” said Ciara, with an air of sudden seriousness, “honestly, like, so impressive, just to have the perfect poem to say, just like that. People think models are dumb, you know.” She threw her hair back again and offered Strike a cigarette before taking another herself. “I get so bored of telling people I’ve got a deferred place to read English at Cambridge.”
“Have you?” asked Strike, unable to suppress the surprise in his voice.
“Yeah,” she said, blowing out smoke prettily, “but, you know, the modeling’s going so well, I’m going to give it another year. It’s opening doors, you know?”
“So this commitment ceremony was when—a week before Lula died?”
“Yeah,” said Ciara, “the Saturday before.”
“And it was just an exchange of poems and bangles. No vows, no officiant?”
“No, it wasn’t legally binding or anything, it was just, like, this lovely, this perfect moment. Well, except for Freddie Bestigui, he was being a bit of a pain. But at least,” Ciara drew hard on her cigarette, “his bloody wife wasn’t there.”
“Tansy?”
“Tansy Chillingham, yeah. She’s a bitch. It’s so not a surprise they’re divorcing; they led, like, totally separate lives, you never saw them out together.
“To tell you the truth, Freddie wasn’t too bad that weekend, seeing what a nasty rep he’s got. He was just a bore, the way he kept trying to suck up to Looly, but he wasn’t awful like they say he can be. I heard a story about this, like, totally naive girl he promised a bit part in a film…Well, I don’t know whether it was true.” Ciara squinted for a moment at the end of her cigarette. “She never reported it, anyway.”
“You said Freddie was being a pain; in what way?”
“Oh God, he kept, like, cornering Looly and going on about how great she’d be on screen, and like, what a great bloke her dad was.”
“Sir Alec?”
“Yeah, Sir Alec, of course. Oh my God,” said Ciara, wide-eyed, “if he’d known her real father, Looly would’ve, like, flipped out completely! That would have been, like, the dream of her life! No, he just said he’d known Sir Alec years and years ago, and they came from, like, the same East End manor or something, so he should be considered, like, her godfather or something. I think he was trying to be funny, but not. Anyway, everyone could tell he was just trying to work out how to get her into a film. He was a jerk about the commitment ceremony; he kept shouting ‘I’ll give away the bride.’ He was pissed; he drank like crazy all through dinner. Dickie had to shut him up. Then after the ceremony, we all had champagne back at the house and Freddie had, like, another two bottles on top of everything he’d already put away. He kept yelling at Looly that she’d make such a great actress, but she didn’t care. She just ignored him. She was cuddled up with Evan on the sofa, just, like…”
And suddenly, tears were sparkling in Ciara’s kohled eyes, and she squashed them out of sight with the flat palms of her pretty white hands.
“…crazy in love. She was so fucking happy, I’d never seen her happier.”
“You met Freddie Bestigui again, didn’t you, on the evening before Lula died? Didn’t the two of you pass him in the lobby, on your way out?”
“Yeah,” said Ciara, still dabbing at her eyes. “How did you know that?”
“Wilson, the security guard. He thought Bestigui said something to Lula that she didn’t like.”
“Yeah. He’s right. I’d forgotten about that. Freddie said something about Deeby Macc, about Looly being excited about him coming, how he really wanted to get them on film together. I can’t remember exactly what it was, but he made it sound dirty, you know?”
“Did Lula know that Bestigui and her adoptive father had been friends?”
“She told me it was the first she’d ever heard of it. She always stayed out of Freddie’s way at the flats. She didn’t like Tansy.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, Looly wasn’t interested in that whole, like, whose husband’s got the biggest fucking yacht crap, she didn’t want to get into their crowd. She was so much better than that. So not like the Chillingham girls.”
“OK,” said Strike, “can you talk me through the afternoon and evening you were with her?”
Ciara dropped her second fag end into the Coke can, with another little spitting fizz, and immediately lit another.
“Yeah. OK, let me think. Well, I met her at her place in the afternoon. Bryony came over to do her eyebrows and ended up giving us both manicures. We just had, like, a girlie afternoon together.”
“How did she seem?”
“She was…” Ciara hesitated. “Well, she wasn’t quite as happy as she’d been that week. But not suicidal, I mean, no way.”
“Her driver, Kieran, thought she seemed strange when she left her mother’s house in Chelsea.”
“Oh God, yeah, well why wouldn’t she be? Her mum had cancer, didn’t she?”
“Did Lula discuss her mother, when she saw you?”
“No, not really. I mean, she said she’d just been sitting with her, because she was a bit, you know, pulled down after her op, but nobody thought then that Lady Bristow was going to die. The op was supposed to cure her, wasn’t it?”
“Did Lula mention any other reason that she was feeling less happy than she had been?”
“No,” said Ciara, slowly shaking her head, the white-blonde hair tumbling around her face. She raked it back again and took a deep drag on her cigarette. “She did seem a bit down, a bit distracted, but I just put it down to having seen her mum. They had a weird relationship. Lady Bristow was, like, really overprotective and possessive. Looly found it, you know, a bit claustrophobic.”
“Did you notice Lula telephoning anyone while she was with you?”
“No,” said Ciara, after a thoughtful pause. “I remember her checking her phone a lot, but she didn’t speak to anyone, as far as I can remember. If she was phoning anyone, she was doing it on the quiet. She was in and out of the room a bit. I don’t know.”
“Bryony thought she seemed excited about Deeby Macc.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Ciara impatiently. “It was everyone else who was excited about Deeby Macc—Guy and Bryony and—well, even I was, a bit,” she said, with endearing honesty. “But Looly wasn’t that fussed. She was in love with Evan. You can’t believe everything Bryony says.”
“Did Lula have a piece of paper with her, that you can remember? A bit of blue paper, which she’d written on?”
“No,” said Ciara again. “Why? What was it?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Strike, and Ciara looked suddenly thunderstruck.
“God—you’re not telling me she left a note? Oh my God. How fucking mad would that be? But—no! That would mean she’d have, like, already decided she was going to do it.”
“Maybe it was something else,” said Strike. “You mentioned at the inquest that Lula expressed an intention to leave everything to her brother, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ciara earnestly, nodding. “Yeah, what happened was, Guy had sent Looly these fabby handbags from the new range. I knew he wouldn’t have sent me any, even though I was in the advert too. Anyway, I unwrapped the white one, Cashile, you know, and it was just, like, beautiful; he does these detachable silk linings and he’d had it custom-printed for her with this amazing African print. So I said, ‘Looly, will you leave me this one?’ just as a joke. And she said, like, really seriously, ‘I’m leaving everything to my brother, but I’m sure he’d let you have anything you want.’ ”
Strike was watching and listening for any sign that she was lying or exaggerating, but the words came easily and, to all appearances, frankly.
“That was a strange thing to say, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I s’pose,” said Ciara, shaking the hair back off her face again. “But Looly was like that; she could go a bit dark and dramatic sometimes. Guy used to say, ‘Less of the cuckoo, Cuckoo.’ Anyway,” Ciara sighed, “she didn’t take the hint about the Cashile bag. I was hoping she’d just give it to me; I mean, she had four.”
“Would you say you were close to Lula?”
“Oh God, yeah, super-close, she told me everything.”
“A couple of people have mentioned that she didn’t trust too easily. That she was scared of confidences turning up in the press. I’ve been told that she tested people to see whether she could trust them.”
“Oh yeah, she did get a bit, like, paranoid after her real mum started selling stories about her. She actually asked me,” said Ciara, with an airy wave of her cigarette, “whether I’d told anyone she was back with Evan. I mean, come on. There was no way she was going to keep that quiet. Everyone was talking about it. I said to her, ‘Looly, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.’ That’s Oscar Wilde,” she added, kindly. “But Looly didn’t like that side of being famous.”
“Guy Somé thinks that Lula wouldn’t have got back with Duffield if he hadn’t been out of the country.”
Ciara glanced towards the door, and dropped her voice.
“Guy would say that. He was just, like, super-protective of Looly. He adored her; he really loved her. He thought Evan was bad for her, but honestly, he doesn’t know the real Evan. Evan’s, like, totally fucked up, but he’s a good person. He went to see Lady Bristow not long ago, and I said to him, ‘Why, Evan, what on earth did you put yourself through that for?’ Because, you know, her family hated him. And d’you know what he said? ‘I just wanna speak to somebody who cares as much as I do that she’s gone.’ I mean, how sad is that?”
Strike cleared his throat.
“The press have totally got it in for Evan, it’s just so unfair, he can’t do anything right.”
“Duffield came to your place, didn’t he, the night she died?”
“God, yeah, and there you are!” said Ciara indignantly. “They made out we were, like, shagging or something! He had no money, and his driver had disappeared, so he just, like, hiked across London so he could crash at mine. He slept on the sofa. So we were together when we heard the news.”
She raised her cigarette to her full mouth and drew deeply on it, her eyes on the floor.
“It was terrible. You can’t imagine. Terrible. Evan was…oh my God. And then,” she said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “they were all saying it was him. After Tansy Chillingham said she’d heard a row. The press just went crazy. It was awful.”
She looked up at Strike, holding her hair off her face. The harsh overhead light merely illuminated her perfect bone structure.
“You haven’t met Evan, have you?”
“No.”
“D’you want to? You could come with me now. He said he was going along to Uzi tonight.”
“That’d be great.”
“Fabby. Hang on.”
She jumped up and called through the open door:
“Guy, sweetie, can I wear this tonight? Go on. To Uzi?”
Somé entered the small room. He looked exhausted behind his glasses.
“All right. Make sure you’re photographed. Wreck it and I’ll sue your skinny white arse.”
“I’m not going to wreck it. I’m taking Cormoran to meet Evan.”
She stuffed her cigarettes away into her enormous bag, which appeared to hold her day clothes too, and hoisted it over her shoulder. In her heels, she was within an inch of the detective’s height. Somé looked up at Strike, his eyes narrowed.
“Make sure you give the little shit a hard time.”
“Guy!” said Ciara, pouting. “Don’t be horrible.”
“And watch yourself, Master Rokeby,” Somé added, with his usual edge of spite. “Ciara’s a terrible slut, aren’t you, dear? And she’s like me. She likes them big.”
“Guy!” said Ciara, in mock horror. “Come on, Cormoran. I’ve got a driver outside.”